


It's in the Cards

by Fiona_Fawkes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:19:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiona_Fawkes/pseuds/Fiona_Fawkes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a prompt from lizardspots; "Sherlock's never received a valentine, until..."  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Much appreciation to Mijan and Killpurakat for reading it over for me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's in the Cards

. . . . .

John was humming pleasantly to himself as he stepped through the door to 221 Baker Street. Shopping accomplished for the week, he was looking forward to a quiet evening at home.

"Hullo, Mrs Hudson," John greeted his landlady with a smile.

“Oh, hello dear. They didn’t give you too much trouble today, then?”

“None at all. You’d almost think the press has forgotten about us.”

“I doubt that,” she scoffed. “But we’ll take what peace we can get. Hang on a tick.” Mrs Hudson disappeared through the door to her sitting room, reappearing a moment later with a cardboard box loaded with cards and packages. “I’ve got the post for you. I’d been sorting out anything suspicious looking, just like you asked.” There were cards and letters of every variety, a few small packages, and even what appeared to be a stuffed ferret wearing a lavender bow tie.

“Is that…” John trailed off.

“I didn’t ask. Just took it and added it to the rest.” She cast a wary glance towards the ceiling, then leaned in closer and dropped her voice to a whisper. “What do you think he’ll make of all of this fuss?”

John shrugged, then looked up at the ceiling and towards the flat beyond where he'd left Sherlock re-shelving books. Sherlock had walked back into John’s life a month ago - after a year-and-a-half away. When he had gone public at a press conference at New Scotland Yard covering the capture of the man behind the murder of Ronald Adair, the public had gone wild. If John thought that things had been sensational after Sherlock’s death, it was nothing compared to the coverage of his ‘resurrection’, as the papers had  
been terming it.

Today was the first day that John had been able to get to and from the shops without being accosted by reporters. It had put him in an unusually good mood.

John relieved Mrs Hudson of her burden with a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for this. I really appreciate it. I wasn’t sure what kind of hate mail Sherlock might be getting, what with all the stir he caused with that Moran business. I thought it might be best to run a bit of interference.”

Mrs Hudson nodded. “A young woman from Mycroft’s office came by and picked through the box while you were out. You know the one, John. She’s been 'round before. Anyhow, she took anything that looked too hurtful with her. Said Mycroft would deal with it. So I guess that just leaves you with the, well, his _fan mail_.”

John gave a dramatic mock-shudder. “God, what a horrifying thought. Who would be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?”

Mrs Hudson gave John a knowing look and swatted him on his good arm. “You’re just as bad he is. Off with you. I left a plate of biscuits on the kitchen table.”

John snickered. “Ta, then.” He balanced the box under his right arm and walked out of Mrs Hudson's flat. As he did, he slipped his left hand into the bag, pulling out a simple white envelope and dropping it into the box as he started up the stairs.

Once upstairs, John emptied his armload onto the kitchen table, snagging one of Mrs Hudson’s iced shortbread biscuits as he put away the perishables. Through the door into the sitting room he could see Sherlock sorting through boxes of his books. “No,” he tossed an entomology text onto the floor. “Yes,” he said, shelving a copy of _The London: A to Z._ “Oh,” Sherlock exclaimed, letting _A Pictorial Guide to Homicide Investigation_ fall open in his hands. “I was missing this,” he said, flipping the pages.

“Sherlock.”

“Hmm?” was the half-attentive response.

“Come in here for a moment. I picked up your post.”

“Not interested,” Sherlock said, setting his book on the small pile on the desk and digging back into the box.

“Surely that can wait,” John prodded. “There are some cards in here for you and I’m not your bloody secretary.”

Sherlock ignored him, so John brought out his trump card. “There might be a taxidermy ferret in it for you,” John taunted.

Sherlock had stopped what he was doing to frown at John. It didn’t look so much like he challenged John’s statement, only that he thought John were somehow ill-qualified in the identification of small mammals.

John intercepted Sherlock’s advance by slapping him in the chest with a handful of post.

“What is all this?” Sherlock asked, staring at the stack of cards and letters.

“It’s your fan mail,” John answered. “Go ahead and open it.”

“Urgh,” Sherlock complained. “Why bother?”

“You giant tit. Some of the things that you’ve done have had quite an impact on a lot of people’s lives. This may be their only way of saying so.”

Sherlock raised a critical brow but tore into the first envelope all the same. “Oh look,” Sherlock claimed with false cheer. “Mrs Hannidey sent along a photo of her and Mister Pompadour. She thanks me once again for finding her prize show Pomeranian. Do you see their matching rhinestone collars, John?” The smile slipped off his face. “Highlight of my career, right there.”

Sherlock tossed the photograph onto the floor and picked up another envelope, holding it under his nose for a sniff before tossing it aside in disgust. “The banker’s widow -the one from Pembrey - thanking me for finding her husband’s killer. Which, incidentally, freed her up to inherit everything. It appears that she has blowing the money on expensive French perfume.”

He tore open a lurid pink envelope that rained glitter. “Here’s one for you, John. Lonely university student wearing nothing but red stockings and a deer stalker. Might want to put that in your nightstand, next to the tissues,” Sherlock teased, handing over the photograph.

John turned the picture over without looking at it and started gathering the post. “You shouldn’t mock people like that. It’s low, even for you.”

Sherlock pulled a stack out of John’s reach. “No, you were right. This is loads of fun. Let us see what the next lonely, pathetic fool has to say.”

John threw the cards on the table and stormed out of the room. “Here is a good one.” Sherlock raised his voice so he could be heard over the sound of John stomping up the stairs. “You are the greatest man I’ve ever know and I have always believed in you,” Sherlock shouted. “You truly are-” Sherlock started as the door to John’s bedroom slammed shut. He rolled his eyes at John’s theatrics and continued reading quietly to himself.

_You are the greatest man I’ve ever know and I have always believed in you.  
You truly are the best friend that I’ve ever had. Thank you for my miracle. –JW_  


Sherlock looked back at the empty stairwell and then at the box and its contents. Greeting cards in pink and red, some with little heart stickers as seals. He looked to the plate of biscuits that Mrs Hudson had left: heart-shaped biscuits with pink frosting and sugar sprinkles. Today was the fourteenth of February.

 _Oh,_ Sherlock thought. _Sentiment._

Sherlock folded the card in his hand and went over to the shopping bag that John had left out on the table. He pulled out the box of nicotine patches that John had thoughtfully picked up for him and applied two of them to his forearm before taking John’s card to the sofa to think.

. . . . .

By the time that John’s anger had cooled to the point that his stomach could not longer be ignored, it was well after midnight. John had lain on his bed with a pillow over his head, trying to block the sound of Sherlock banging around the flat. Hours had passed like this before John had finally fallen into a restless sleep. 

But John had woken from disjointed dreams at the sound of Sherlock’s bedroom door closing. An hour had passed before John finally came down stairs, and he was pleased to find that all the lights were off and the flat was quiet.

Flipping on the light over the kitchen sink, John set about trying to find himself something for a late supper. The bread he’d bought that afternoon was still sitting in the bag on the kitchen table, but the box of post and plate of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits had been cleared. Thinking simple, John went to the fridge to pull out the jam. He stopped short at the sight of two take out containers sitting on the top shelf. John pulled one out and cautiously peered inside to find his favorite beef curry - untouched - the condensation still clinging to the Styrofoam lid. In the other, he found jasmine rice and a round of garlic naan.

John sighed as he stared at one of his favorite meals. Indulging in the obvious attempt at an apology seemed like acceptance, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready to forgive Sherlock for the insult just yet. Surely, this meant that Sherlock had finished reading that last card; the one from John. Slipping it into the pile had seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time, but like most of John’s plans, it had failed spectacularly.

Sure, it was a bit sentimental, but John had things he needed to say and no other way to go about it. He couldn’t take one more session of Ella pointedly asking after his progress, and so John had taken a leap… and apparently fallen flat on his arse. With any luck, Sherlock would wake tomorrow and happily pretend that nothing from today had ever happened. John didn’t feel terribly lucky just now.

But what he did feel was hungry, and so with a long and suffering sigh, John closed the refrigerator door and pulled a plate off of the draining board. He spooned a hearty serving of curry and rice onto the plate and popped it into the microwave. John waited, absently gnawing on a chunk of cold naan as he filled a glass with water from the tap. It was as he was turning back toward the table that he saw it.

Propped up against the kettle was a card with his name on it. No salutation, just _John_ written in Sherlock’s unmistakable flowing script.

John set down his glass and half-eaten bread, wiping his greasy fingers on his pajama bottoms. The envelope was a plain white, slightly smaller than the average greeting card, but made out of a heavy weight paper. Obviously expensive, John dragged his fingers along the sharp crease, feeling the fibrous texture of the stock.b He pulled out a kitchen chair and sat heavily upon it, dinner suddenly forgotten. With steady hands, John carefully un-tucked the back of the envelope and slid out a full-sized sheet of paper, crisply folded into quarters.

 

_Dear John,_

 

John fought the urge to giggle at what was surely an unintentional pop culture reference. One did not go into the Army with a name like ‘John’ and not hear the jokes about the dreaded letters from home.

 

_I believe I owe you an apology. Not just for transgressions which put me in the unique position of having placed my foot in my own mouth, but for so much more. My time away was nearly intolerable without your stable presense._

_I have always held you in the highest regards._

_Your friend,_

_Sherlock_

 

John folded the note and slipped it back into the envelope with a sad smile. Despite his appaling lack of social grace, Sherlock had tried. 

John jumped at the sound of the floor boards creaking behind him and turned to see Sherlock standing in the hall in his dressing gown.

“I see you got my note.”

“Yeah, um-” John scratched the back of his neck, at a loss as to what to say. “It was good, Sherlock. I appreciated the thought. But if you don’t mind, I think I’d rather put this whole day behind us.”

“Of course,” Sherlock agreed quickly, coming into the kitchen and pulling out one of the chairs. “I just thought you would appreciate an apology.”

“You didn’t actually apologize, Sherlock.”

“I apologized.”

“No you didn’t,” John argued. “You just said that you owed me one. That's not the same thing. You never  
actually-”

“I am sorry, John.” Sherlock had a pinched look to his face, as if the words caused him physical pain. He gripped the back of the chair tightly; his knuckles white. "For so many things, both from earlier today and from before I left. But mostly notably, I apologize for my failure to recognize that you could possibly hold me in as high a regard as I hold you. When I left, I was trying to protect you. But instead, I only hurt you more. For that I am truly sorry.”

Sherlock dropped his gaze to the floor and let out a deep sigh, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his admission. John, for his part, was completely floored, and found himself struggling with how to respond. Phrases like _I know,_ and _You should be,_ came to mind, but were immediately discarded.

Instead, John simply said, “Thank you.”

Sherlock looked up with something like shock on his face, before he graced John with a small, yet genuine smile that John returned natural as breathing. “Did you eat?”

The look was gone, replaced by wary confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

“The take out,” John said, indicating the Styrofoam containers still sitting on the table. “You didn’t order anything for yourself, did you?” Sherlock shook his head, and John went over to the draining board to take out another plate. He emptied the rest of the curry and rice onto the plate and switched it out for the plate that had already been warmed. “Sit,” John instructed, and Sherlock did, quietly accepting the fork John handed him and nodding as John slid a plate in front of him.

“Rajdoot is my favorite,” John said, tucking into his dinner. “How did you know?”

“You are distressingly easy to read.”

John raised an eyebrow in challenge.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Well, when I am paying attention, it seems.”

“Ha,” John laughed, tearing off another piece of naan before tossing the rest onto Sherlock’s plate. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Sherlock.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Happy Valentine’s Day, John.”

. . . The End . . .


End file.
